


Series of Vignettes

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-02
Updated: 2007-08-15
Packaged: 2019-01-19 23:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. Hm.





	1. Arabella's Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Series of Vignettes**  
By Solarism

 

 

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.

 

 

**I. Arabella’s Hair**

Pairing: witch!Arabella Figg/Sirius Black  
Rating: PG-13 for mild language and mature themes  
Category: AU romance  
Completion: One-shot, completed

\- - - - -

And he had always loved her best when she wore her hair like that, twisted up with little loose ends spilling out and downward, tickling at her neck, tracing themselves against the side of her jaw in that way that made his fingertips attempt to curl up with envy. He loved her when she’d wear it that way just for him, smiling rather awkwardly and trying to hide it, because she was wearing her hair up and it was spilling outward, going everywhere, laying low. He wished that she would wear it that way always and match her clothing and her personality to those little dangling strands, with her bra straps and shoelaces and sharpened wit all slightly loose and disorderly, the little hints of lighter brown in her eyes breaking out of order and twisting up like steam. The way those strands of long black hair would fall so simply, so tastefully against her smooth, creamy neck, the way she would push them behind her ears with the back of her hand, the way that she looked when she was trying so hard not to let him know that it was for him, all, everything, simply and undoubtedly for him, was when he loved her best, loving her in that obsessive way that all men do when they are in the presence of something that they could never hope to perpetuate.

And when he kissed her on the neck, he’d push the little swirling ballerina hairs away, sinking his lips into her skin and breathing in the scent of her shampoo, ignoring the smell of the Forbidden Forest that always clung to him during this time of the month, after his secrets had been exercised and the twigs had been freed from his robes. When he came in, it was to meet her and those hairs that slipped away from her bun and tumbled down in a little cascade of bounce and twist, and it was Arabella’s hair that he buried his nose into to relieve it of those dog-smells, those things that he was usually so fascinated by. He allowed the way they dangled there, dangling so simply and so elegantly, to become his master, his entrancement fed and provoked by the way that she didn’t even know what it meant to him to have those hairs there, by the way that she didn’t know that he probably loved her hairs much more than he loved her some of the time.

And when he was done planning with James and with Peter and with Remus, when he had extinguished the lamplight and passed through the cobwebbed interiors of long-lonely passageways, when he’d brush softly and silently against a tapestry trying so fiercely not to wake the sleeping paintings, he thought of her, coming back always to the way that she’d worn her hair, the way that she put it up for him and how the little pieces fell out just like that, just so calmly, so rationally. In a world where there was not much to look forward to, her hairs were his. Maybe it was silly, maybe it was the Black family scorn for love of a person, for passion for someone of a lower class than they, but he felt that those hairs were sometimes all he had to live for, all he had to grasp when James talked of the future to them and all of a sudden graduation was rushing closer and closer to meet them and to usher them into the vast, great, terrible, horrifying beyond. He didn’t want to let go of them, he didn’t want to. He couldn’t. He hated his mother, his father, his brother–he lived and breathed as a Potter, not as an aristocrat, but a Potter, a family of such tainted purity, and that made him an outcast in all that he knew except for Arabella’s hairs and the way that they didn’t match her, the way that she always looked surprised when she noticed one had actually strayed into her line of vision.

And Arabella, one of the first, he was sure, to abandon all hope, provided no comfort except to let him kiss her hard and press his teeth into her neck, grinding his body against hers, which was probably all that he was looking for anyway. Still, he knew that she wore her hair like that especially for him, because she knew he loved it, because she understood somehow in her shallow, frightened, self-conscious existence that he somehow needed it, because she loved him in her own way and even though she blushed, she wanted him, she wanted him to see her with her hair that way if it pleased him, wanted him to want her.

And he knew that he loved at least her hairs. That was what mattered. That was what was important.


	2. Unfit

**Series of Vignettes**  
By Solarism

 

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.

**II. Unfit**

 

Pairing: Pansy/Ron  
Rating: PG for mature themes  
Category: AU romance  
Completion: One-shot, completed

 

\- - - - -

 

She watches him with her nose upturned as he passes, her hand firmly grasping Draco’s forearm, and thinks that his gait is so like that of a _Weasley_ –so ambling, so lazy and slow. She thinks that he is unrefined, undignified, uninteresting, and (worst of all) poor; she thinks that he is unfit to attend the same classes as a Parkinson and a Malfoy, even if he _is_ pure. She watches the way he retreats just like that and despises it in all of her imperial scrutiny. She draws herself up to her full height, feeling Draco’s warm flesh beneath her fingertips, and watches Ronald Weasley walk away with that Hermione Granger girl, so unaware of her presence, unaware of her glowers.  


The grass beneath her is wet. She is a girl who wears a scowl naturally, and she scowls now down at the dew, letting the Weasley boy escape the rest of the way back to the castle without her gaze to hunt him. She listens as Draco talks–about nothing, always about nothing important in the long run, only about politics and his father’s beliefs–but he is not talking to her. He prefers the company of Gregory, who is too stupid to comprehend his inconsistencies, and Vincent, who is intelligent enough to pretend not to comprehend them. She, Pansy, is on his arm, waiting for him to move. She is scowling at the dew on the grass, waiting for Draco to move, and feeling his arm, and thinking of Weasley and his God-awful red hair.

Life isn’t fair, she knows.

Her gaze lifts slowly from the dew, searching mechanically for that blaze of red off in the distance, but it seems that Weasley has passed behind one of the trees. She waits for him to emerge, eyes darting from tree to tree, wondering which one he is behind, wondering why it is taking so long for him to become visible. Of course, he moves away from a tree off to the right, his fingers brushing Granger’s as they walk. He swings his arms, Pansy notices, and wonders if it’s because he wants to hold Granger’s hand or if it’s simply because he was raised to be an orangutan by those filthy, traitorous parents of his. _Probably a mixture_ , she thinks in delightedly cynical retrospect.

Draco pauses in his monologue to make a snickering comment about Weasel and the Mudblood, stirring Pansy into glancing at his sneer for a moment, but he resumes talk of the Dark Lord quickly, as though he’d never missed a beat to begin with. Pansy turns away. She doesn’t want to hear about all of the things that their parents are doing beneath their hooded cloaks. She only wants Draco to jeer at Weasley again; she wants him to degrade Granger, degrade her to her face, make Granger know that she’s a Mudblood, that she’s not good enough, that she’s not good enough for…

Pansy watches as Granger, out of earshot, turns her face toward Weasley as they walk together, talking about something undoubtedly insipid and pretentious, as Granger has always been so fond of doing. She watches Weasley–Ron–shrug his shoulders and refuse to return the Mudblood’s gaze, and wonders what he’s thinking, wonders if he wants Granger to shut up or to go to bloody hell.

She slides her now loose grasp on Draco’s arm down to his wrist, but he doesn’t notice and she doesn’t care. 

She’s staring at Weasley.

And for just a moment, just a chance second, Weasley turns his head, and he is staring back.


	3. Something in her Mouth

**Series of Vignettes**  
By Solarism

 

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.

  
**III. Something in Her Mouth**   


Pairing: Seamus/Lavender  
Rating: R for very mature themes, language, and sexual implications  
Category: Romance  
Completion: One-shot, completed

\- - - - -

Lavender’s always got something in her fucking mouth, sucking on it or making it dart in and out between her lips, something pressed up against her cheek or smacking against her tongue, something she’s licking or chewing or fucking or something, and it’s pretty obvious that all she’s out for is one quick screw. She likes to think it’s sexy or something to lean over my desk and do that, lick a lollipop or smack her gum, because I guess she thinks it’s supposed to make me think of her giving me a blow job. Well, I’ve got news for her: it does, but I don’t fucking like it and I don’t fucking like her. Much.

When she hugs me, she presses her hips into mine like she’s desperate or something (she probably is), and she acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world with that fucking smug-arse look on her face. So top-of-the-fucking-line, Lavender, always asking me how my homework’s coming as though she gives a damn. I don’t see why she doesn’t just get it over with, jump me in the library one night and take me right there on the table. I think she likes to fuck more than I like to pretend I don’t know she likes to fuck. She had her day with Dean, with Ron, with fucking everyone except me, probably, even the Slytherins, and I keep this in mind every time she tells me how fucking gosh darn much she just loves my Irish accent.

I don’t get her. I mean, maybe she wants a fuck, maybe she’s out for a little screwing around in the Astronomy Tower or the Quidditch broom shed or something, I don’t really know, but I don’t have much to offer her. She licks her lips and sends me those horribly lewd glances all the time, sucking and biting and toying with her hair, playing and rubbing and pinching and hugging, but why? Lavender doesn’t like conquests–she likes easy targets, as far as I fucking know. I just wish somebody would giving me a fucking explanation about what this girl is all on about. What is it so that I can give it to her? Does she really want a fuck? Does she really want it that badly?

I guess she doesn’t know that I don’t have time for women and that is the honest to God truth. My mum’s been real sick lately, feeling rather peaky, like, and my dad doesn’t know much about witchcraft diseases or anything being a Muggle and all. She’s been to see some Healers but they don’t get it either, so I’m fucking always worried about it, you know, because she’s my mum and she’s ill. Sometimes I think Harry Potter has it real fucking lucky–no mum to worry about, no nothing like that.

If Lavender thinks that fucking someone makes it all better, she’s pretty close to wrong. I guess for some people it might make them put whatever they’re in a tizzy over out of their minds, but it’s pretty difficult to actually use the fuck to make it better. It’s just not fucking proactive, doesn’t she understand? She walks by me swishing her hips like she wants to slam me up against a wall and fuck the shit out of me, but then she acts all coy-like when we’re in class, passing notes with Parvati or whoever the hell. It’s always give and take with her, give and take. I don’t fucking get it. She sucks those little lollipops, offers me a taste, strokes her hands down my chest, bends down in front of me to pick up her quill because she thinks she’s got a nice arse, but what does it all amount to? She never jumps me, I never jump her, we’re not fucking, and everything’s not all right again.

I just wish someone would fucking tell her that I need a girl that can be there for me–a real dandy sort, you get it? I want someone that’ll grasp my wrist, not my crotch. I want someone who will be in it for the long run and help me deal with my life instead of running fucking away from it. I guess the trouble is that Lavender’s never had to deal with things the way I have.

She’s innocent while she fucks them all.

She’s too _fucking_ innocent.


	4. Sleeping Alone

**Series of Vignettes**  
By Solarism

 

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.

**IV. Sleeping Alone**

 

Pairing: Lily/James  
Rating: PG-13 for mature concepts and language  
Category: Deconstruct excerpt [enriched]  
Completion: Complete

\- - - - -

I stepped in front of James Potter, my arms crossed protectively over my chest, and cocked my head slightly to one side in what I believed to be the epitome of self-confidence. I was very careful to have my best poker face glued on. He couldn’t know my real emotions. No, not this time.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team had just come in from practice. Outside, the sun was setting and the night was growing cold. Inside their locker room it was steamy and heated, both from their body heat and from a comforting, unseen fireplace.

The last time I’d been in here, James and I had been soaking wet and he had been wearing only see-through white boxers. Now I stood before him, watching him with an inner, bitter amusement. He didn’t even notice I was there. After Quidditch, James was way too focused on strategy to realize anything except the fight songs he whistled, the locker in front of him, and the clothes he was taking off.

I shook my head with a little bit of impatience. I decided I’d have to be the one to speak first.

"Why hello, Mr. Potter," I said only loud enough for James to hear, revealing my presence abruptly.

He jumped several inches into the air and slammed his Quidditch locker shut in one very fluid, ineloquent movement. Letting out a haggard little noise that threatened to make me giggle in delight, he gave me a wild stare before opening his mouth in something that looked like a mixture of surprise, horror, and fascination.

"Lily," he said in a strangled sort of way, "what are you doing here?"

"I came to talk," I said, putting my flushed face against the cool gray lockers. I could feel a blush creeping up the back of my neck, making its way into my cheeks.

Maybe it was because I was in the hot locker rooms amid a bunch of very attractive teenage boys undressing, or maybe it was just because I was nervous about my plans, or maybe it was because I was standing in front of a half-naked James Potter… but I felt feverish.

"To talk?" asked James incredulously. "You’re in the middle of my locker room. We’re _changing_." He cast about him slightly, checking to see if any of his team mates had noticed our conversation. They hadn’t.

"Hey, as you once said," I said without so much as a blink, "nothing I haven’t seen before."

He literally shut his big mouth for a moment, unsure of how to continue. He wasn’t a friend to bitterness, James Potter. "You don’t say," was all he said after a moment’s titillating pause.

I pressed my warm cheeks up against the coldness of the lockers some more and gently shut my eyelids. Let him think whatever he wanted. Let him think I’d slept with Lucius. It didn’t hurt to have him stare at me. I just didn’t want to have to look at the disappointment I was sure would be apparent in his eyes.

I heard him open his locker again after a moment of quietness, so I opened my eyes a tiny bit. He wasn’t looking at me anymore.

"So, what is it you wanted to talk about? I guess you won’t mind if we talk as I undress. I’m a bit sweaty," said James, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

He really sucked at trying to sound nonchalant, actually.

"I came to say that I thought over what you said. About being friends. See, Lucius is very protective of me as I’m sure you know," I said, hesitating a little.

"I know," said James, unbuttoning his Quidditch trousers.

I watched his fingers fiddle with the button. He was nervous. I could tell because of how he couldn’t seem for the life of him to get that single button undone. His fingertips stumbled over it again and again, and he looked down at it with intense fascination, as if undoing his pants was as complicated as advanced quantum physics.

I let my eyes rove up his torso. I knew that I was slipping. I was doing exactly what I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t. I was looking at him, at his body, and loving every inch of him. I was looking at him exposed and without cover. I was looking at James Potter and I was feeling a surge of love.

I quickly pushed this out of my mind and focused only on the side of his head. He finally managed to undo the button, and slowly dragged the zipper down.

He wore checkered blue and green boxers today–oh, oh, side of his head, side of his head. Right.

Yes, I was self-assured. Yes, I had poise. Yes. Of course.

Fuck.

"So, what…?" prodded James, grabbing his pants at the waist and pulling them down. He stepped out of them and I swallowed hard.

Damn damn damn damn.

"So if you want to be friends we have to be secret friends or else Lucius will see to it personally that you are murdered and that I am locked up inside a secret tower somewhere forever and ever until I’m so old he forgets about me and I die," I blurted out in one mad, blinking rush.

James, standing only in those very attractive green and blue checkered boxers, gave me a sideways look before shoving his pants unceremoniously into his locker.

I pinched my eyes shut. No, I would most certainly not stare at his almost naked, sweaty body. No I would not.

Okay, maybe just a little.

"What do you think?" I asked, slightly tentatively.

James sighed and looked around at his team mates, all of which seemed to be oblivious to my presence still. They were strewn out throughout the locker room and James and I were fairly hidden near the back, but I was surprised they hadn’t recognized the smooth clarity of a female voice by now.

The team mate closest to us was Sirius, and he was starting to belt out a very loud song I’d never heard before, hitting all the wrong notes and sliding back and forth all over the place in his socks and underwear. His back was to us and his butt kept twitching oddly, in such a way that I felt indecent for witnessing it.

"WHA WHA WHA WHYYY DO YOU CRYYYY? MY BABY PLEASE OH PLEASE BABY WHA WHA WHA WHYYY DO YOU CRYYY?" sang Sirius.

I cringed at having just witnessed Sirius Black shake his butt in boxers.

Boxers, honestly, were the devil.

"I don’t know, Lily," said James finally, pulling a shirt out of his locker and shaking out the wrinkles. Hadn’t his mother ever taught him, in all her clothes designing madness, how to decently fold his own clothing? "I thought you said that you didn’t want to see me anymore and that you couldn’t bring yourself to be friends with me again."

"But you said you’d always be there for me," I reminded him. I congratulated myself on my deviousness.

"OH BABY, YOU COULD TAKE MY HEART ALLLLLL THE WAY DOWN TO ALABAMA, BAY BEE BAY BEE PLEASEEE," sang Sirius. I heard a distinctive crash as he hit a locker. The rest of the guys laughed.

"OH BABY WHA WHA WHA WHYYYY DO YOU CRYYY," he sang to let everyone know he was okay.

James cringed as Sirius hit a particularly high note and put his shirt on. "What are you proposing?" he asked me as he pulled the shirt down over his head, and I could tell he was trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"That we start over, completely from scratch. Forget everything that ever happened between us," I lied, speaking quickly now. I felt uncomfortable in the locker room for some reason. James dragged on a pair of jeans and zipped them up slowly.

I felt like every second spent in there, I was going to be caught. Caught and killed, or something crazy like that.

I felt trapped.

"So, like nothing ever happened," repeated James dully, focusing on his button. He managed to get a hold of it easily this time.

He was now fully dressed again.

"BABY OH BABY YOU GOT THOSE LEGGGGS," sang Sirius raucously, "AND I MUST CONFESS OH BAY BEE!"

James rolled his eyes in Sirius’ general direction. For someone who chastised me when I rolled mine, he sure rolled his a lot too. He pulled out his Hogwarts school robes, put them over his head, and shut his locker. Leaning against it, he nudged the floor with his bare toes.

"But in secret. You want to be secret friends, like no one could ever see us together, or something. Am I following you correctly?" he asked.

"Perfectly," I said. "I mean, think about it. We could talk. But we just couldn’t let anyone know that we’re friends. We could just hang out sometimes, in the common room. We could… well, we could be buddies. Casually, you know."

"What about Sirius and Remus? I see you’ve recently exiled them as well." He was staring at his toes.

"I suppose I could phase them into this too," I said.

"OH BABY, YOU KNOW YOUR LOVE MEANS IT ALLLLLLL TO ME E E E E EEEEEEE, OH YES BABY PLEASE, SO WHA WHA WHA WHYYY DO YOU CRYYY MY BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BABY?" wailed Sirius at the top of his lungs.

James and I glanced at each other.

"Is this singing a regular event?" I asked.

"Oh, every day," James replied dimly.

"Right. Well… I should get going," I said, standing up straight and straightening out my shirt. "It was lovely to see you again, though. Do we have a deal?"

"You know, it’s funny," James said, raising a finger. He paused, took a good look at me, and sighed. "No, nevermind. I must be crazy or you must be or something, but sure. We have a deal."

"Good," I smiled. My plan was going flawlessly. So far, so good.

"I missed you, Lily," said James suddenly, catching my eye with alarming mildness.

And it _was_ funny.

Because for a second there, and only for a second, the bastard actually looked like he meant it.

"BABY YOU CAN SHINE MY CAR," sang Sirius, who knew absolutely nothing about cars in the first place.

I stuck out my hand and James met me half way. We shook hands slowly and emerald met hazel as I stared him down, the plastered-on smile never leaving my lips.

"Hi," I said in a small voice. "You’re James Potter, aren’t you?"

"Yes," he said back, a smile lighting up his handsome face. "And you’re Lily Evans."

"I am," I said. "You make a new girl fall in love with you every day."

"And you," said James, "find a new way every single second to make me remember that I used to have so much better than this."

I let go of his hand.

"See you later, friend," I said.

"Bye, Lily," said James, and he watched me walk away.


	5. The Fight

**Series of Vignettes**  
By Solarism

 

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.

**V. The Fight**

Pairing: witch!Arabella/Sirius  
Rating: PG-13 for language  
Category: AU romance  
Completion: Complete

\- - - - -

“Oh, don’t blame me for your _glaring_ deficiencies, Black,”� she spat, giving him a cold stare. “You don’t realize just how obvious you are in your every intention. I can see right through you; you’re like a ridiculous pane of glass that thinks it’s a brick wall. Why don’t you understand that you’re the one at fault? You’re the one that’s obvious.”�

“So _obvious_ in my every _intention_ , am I?”� flared Sirius, whose temper was not to be outdone. “Maybe the reason that we got caught is because you couldn’t keep from hollering your head off. You think that wasn’t obvious, Figg?”�

“I did not _holler my head off_ ,”� Arabella glared, her dark brown eyes flaming with hatred. “We got caught because you had to brag about it! You had to bloody spread it around the entire school that we were going to do it, even though you knew someone was bound to tip off a professor. Honestly, you are so much of a git that I can’t stand looking at you right now.”�

“Oh, that’s rich, Figg. That’s really rich,”� Sirius turned his body away from her and crossed his arms, sinking down into his seat. “Don’t stop now. Really, keep going and maybe you’ll win the Biggest Bitch award at the end of the term. Really, I just love to hear you shoot your mouth off and accuse me of things I never did. Keep at it. You’re brilliant.”�

“On the defensive so easily?”� Arabella hissed. “You’re such a liar. You really are. I know you told people. You had to go and tell the Marauders, and then you had to go and tell Mundungus–and then, as if that wasn’t enough–you had to tell _Lily_.”�

“Why shouldn’t I have told Lily? Why shouldn’t I have told any of them?”� Sirius snapped, still not looking at her. Arabella rounded on him, hopping off the desk and shaking with anger as she stared at his back.

“You stupid bastard,”� she said, clenching her fists in distaste, “are you really that thick? Mundungus gossips worse than anyone, and Lily got concerned and worried for my welfare–for our welfare, and you know how she’s been since she was made a Prefect! She felt like I was betraying her, and you knew it. I think you liked baiting her, didn’t you, Black?”�

Sirius didn’t answer.

“Didn’t you?”� she demanded.

“Do you really want to know why I told her?”� he asked, his voice still brimming with anger, but surprisingly low.

“Didn’t I just ask you, you stupid prat?”� Arabella responded in a flash, not one to be thrown off by a mere change in someone’s tone.

“I said, ‘Lily, you’ve got to help me. I’m going somewhere with Arabella tonight and I need your advice on something,’”� Sirius said, sounding extremely bitter. “She said, ‘Sirius, are you feeling all right? I don’t think Arabella would ever agree to go anywhere with you…’”�

“I never should have,”� Arabella fumed, but her interest was captured, and she unclenched her fists.

“I said, ‘Lily, we’re going to the Restricted Section of the library after hours. Arabella thinks it’s to find some books for extra research for Potions, but I’m really not going to take her there,’”� Sirius continued in a rush, angry at himself for spilling it all out. “And then Lily said, ‘Where are you going to take her, then?’”�

Arabella frowned. This wasn’t what she was expecting at all.

“I said, ‘I’m going to Hogsmeade. I know a secret passage way and I’ll tell her it’s a short cut. And when we get to Hogsmeade, I’m going to ask her to go out with me. I’m going to tell her… I’m going to tell her that I…’”� Sirius shook his head. “God damn it. Nevermind.”�

Arabella looked at him.

“Black…”�

But he had already turned so that she could no longer see his eyes, the shadows of McGonagall's office casting dark specters over his handsome face. She strained to see the emotion he wore, but all she could distinguish was a strange look of pain plastered across his lips, which were screwed up in an unpleasant twist.

“Black–”� she started.

“Forgive me, Arabella,”� he said simply, quietly, dangerously. “For a moment, I forgot my place.”�


	6. No More

**Series of Vignettes**  
By Solarism

 

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.

**VI. No More**

Pairing: Lily/Lucius  
Rating: PG-13 for language  
Category: AU romance  
Completion: Complete

\- - - - -

It was such a grand disillusionment–harsh, harsh, harsh reality nipping and gnawing and tearing and squeezing and climbing and choking and suffocating all of the life out of the moment in one single, precise, well-spoken phrase that I knew would ring in my ears for years and years if only I could not die at this second, only not choke, only keep looking at him and focus in and realize rejection and keep breathing, in and out, inhale and exhale, just like that, half-dead already. It was so panicky and rushed but at the same time completely calming and fitting for the grand effect of what he was trying to get across–rejection, my rejection, his withdrawal, the bluntness finally come full circle in a classless demonstration of who could spit the nasty fact out the fastest. Darling, oh darling, how cleansing, how pure, how nice to break away from your little games of tea time and society, I’m sure you were thinking, oh darling, darling, oh darling, you know. I know, I know, I know.

When I am sinking and suffocating with your final moment of vehemence, with your syllables, I am falling and sinking into you, into the little pieces of you that litter my life, my bedroom; your clothes, your papers, your ink, your words, stuck there in a charade of permanence, but you will not stay. You will never stay. Exhale and your round, magnificent eyes are already darting away to some new treasure, some new summer-kissed skin, golden glows and miracles; that’s what you’re all about, darling, that’s all that you’ll ever know, here in my heart, judged in every thought–you don’t weigh in, you don’t. And you smile and I feel your hair, still twisted and tangled in my fingers, wrapped around my knuckles and left there in part, a strand or three in my palm, laying there, as dead as you. You are floating high above me already, I can see it, I can tell. When will you come down, darling? When?

The truth is I don't think you ever will. Your God damned drawling voice and those miraculous lips that spread as angel wings and float you up to a social class so far above mine--those things keep you up there and shelter you from me and the way that I love you, the way that I've always thought I'd always love you. Why do you do this? Why is it so difficult to surrender me one more moment, one more jilting kiss in your manic world of titillation and exposition? 

I beg of you, oh I beg, don't do this to me _now_.


	7. Preferences

**Series of Vignettes**

 

By Solarism

 

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.

 

**VII. Preferences**

 

Pairing: Petunia/James

  
Rating: PG-13 for language

  
Category: AU romance

  
Completion: Complete

\- - - - - 

Petunia hid in cupboards when that boy came around. She hated to see him, with all of his sodding robes and done up hair, and his easy grin and neatly trimmed fingernails. He was darkened, tanned from _flying_ around in the sunlight at that school he went to with Lily, and Petunia thought him crass. James Potter, in her eyes, was nothing but a fast talking, Dement-thingoid telling, idiot liar. And he loved her sister, which was one worse.

So when he came banging into the kitchen, Lily on his back piggy-style, laughing her shrieking, unsophisticated head off, Petunia sunk low under the kitchen table with her slightly burnt toast and crawled quickly away to the nearest china cabinet or under-sink place, where it was dark enough that the buffoon would never think to look down his nose at her. 

"Petty Petunia" he called her, twirling his wand with long fingers and bright, eager, laughing eyes, as though she was some joke--some very funny, very amusing charade of a person fit for nothing but laughter, spite, and condescending voices. Oh, she hated that brute! He was always galloping places, and telling loud jokes to her parents, and winning the day with his tales of adventure and mystery.

Her mother and father just adored a pureblood in the house. That was what he called himself, that ridiculous, dim-witted freak. He said it shyly, but he still said it, in his commanding, direct, deplorable voice. He took her, Petunia's, hand in his and said, "I'm a pureblooded wizard. You are a pureblooded Muggle. Don't hate me because we each missed the opportunity to be each other. Please don't."

The indignation swelled hugely inside Petunia's bosom every time she laid eyes on him, and when he clapped his lips and his strong jaw to her sister, brushing them against her neck, jaw, or collarbone... It was filthy. It was lewd. Petunia would grasp herself around the hips, a lowered hug, and feel a burning somewhere deep inside of her, a sort of tangled, mixed up, angry feeling. She hated him in the house. She hated to look upon him.

When he had asked her not to hate him, she had almost for a second thought he said "because we missed the opportunity to be _with_ each other" and it had brought a delirious, choked up, sob from her chest. The tears had welled up in her eyes and she had cast his hand away from her, flinging herself back towards the house in a fury of a knotted stomach and burning cheeks. She would never step foot in a garden with him again. That boy and his manly hands, and his earnest words, with his sister's perfume caught in a strand or seven of his hair...

Petunia would sink, she truly believed, before she would ever, ever give that no good boy a conversation again--it hurt to hate him so much, it tired her. So she crawled into cupboards when he came in the room, and ate her toast in silence.


	8. Hourglass

**Series of Vignettes**

By Solarism

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Enjoy.

**VIII. Hourglass**

Pairing: Lily/James

Rating: PG for drama

Category: Romance

Completion: Complete

\- - - - - 

The first time I saw the thing that would change our lives forever was the last time I saw the people’d loved it best.

’Twas a pity. ’Twas an awful dying shame.

It was beautiful, masterful, a wonderful thing. I remember it because Lily hung it round James’ neck ornamentally and kissed him lightly ’cross the bridge of his long, slim nose a’cause of it. He grabbed her fingers and danced her ’round the tabletop, the both of them barefoot and hip knocking, so excited to see it, to have it, for what it symbolized and meant, buoyantly. The thing, an hourglass alive with red and gold, flipped and flopped in the air and bounded against James’ chest in tandem with his heart, while Lily, wild, red, golden and bouncing also, smiled her best big smile, freckles all but aglow in the firelight’s warm shine. Ah.

It was the best night of their lives, better’n anything I’d ever witnessed, and the both of ’em looking so respectable and beautiful, too! There never was a finer looking couple than Lily and James Potter, partic’ly on their wedding night. I’ve always said it that Lily Evans was a handsome girl, but Lily Potter was a beautiful woman, one no man’d dare reckon with.

Thrice defied You-Know-Who. You’ll remember, eh?

The little hourglass lookin’ so little and petite, like Lily’s little hands and James’ sore ’n bitten fingernails, flew and flew and I thought many times it’d plum flown right off James’ head and landed into the fire. They lit a fire all around the table while they danced, looking tribal and wild and dangerous, dolled up in wedding clothes except with Lily’s hair down and James’ tie defiled and the thing was in danger, probably, more’n it should’ve been let.

But we all laughed—that was Lily and James! The Potters! Boisterously sat Sirius and Remus, tapping pints together and slapping knees, little Pettrigrew sleeping sound and fast beneath their feet. Poor bugger exhausted, arrived late to the wedding, almost had to cancel it all, call it all off, for the little Peter boy. Queer, wasn’t it? We all watched the Potters as they slung their arms and danced in the fire ring, elevated ’bove all the rest, royalty, of a kind like they always were in school. We giggled and gasped, oh, how we gasped!

And then the fire caught the back of Lily’s dress and she was falling into the flames, backwards, loosened from James’ grasp.

Remus’ eyes bulged, his face went pale, Sirius stopped laughing, Pettigrew didn’t snore. Time suspended, literally—as James swooped to grab her up, to save her, the hourglass ’round his neck did a mid-air pirouette and stuck there longer’n it should. He caught her, all right, of course he did.

But in the process--’twas such a pity, such a shame!—that thing, the Hourglass left his head and shattered on the tabletop while James put out the fire on Lily’s dress with his shoe. It was an uproarious rush! Someone put out the flames, the band stopped playing, Lily went ashen and de-bloomed.

We all looked up and witness’d what’d occurred.

James had saved Lily, but he could not save her wedding dress. And because he saved her, his hourglass had smashed beneath his boot.

A bride for his time. His time decimated for a bride.

Struck me then and strikes me now.

Those Potters, aye. 

 

They always were a metaphor, nothin’ less.


	9. Unrequited

**Series of Vignettes**

By Solarism

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Enjoy.

**IX. Unrequited**

Pairing: Lily/OC

Rating: PG for drama

Category: Romance

Completion: Complete

\- - - - - 

When Tommy died, we weren’t invited to his funeral. His parents had always been against the Order and against Tommy’s interest in it, and when he died, they believed very strongly that we had been the cause of his death.

Tommy wasn’t actually in the Order because Albus thought he was too young, you remember. Maybe he was a little too reckless—but Tommy loved Frank and he loved Sirius Black, both of whom also had reckless streaks, and Tommy was one of the first to volunteer to help Frank out with a job or two here or there. He was a nice guy.  
It never really made sense to me why Tommy was never initiated into the Order. We were all young there for the most part, ranging from 19 to barely 21. Anyone older than that was a Hogwarts professor or some kind of specialist. We, the recruits, were fresh out of school and strong-willed, but only a little older than Tommy ourselves.

Tommy was 18 when he died.

He was completely devoted to Frank and Sirius. He wore a perpetual lopsided grin that conveniently doubled as a grimace when he was disgusted or sad or angry. He had a long nose, like James, and green eyes, though they weren’t as pure or as dark as yours. He had Remus’ compassion, though not his stability, and Peter’s unquestioning compliance.

The guy killed himself for you. For all of us, I think.  
I remember the way you reacted when you found out. We were sitting at a bar, neither of us very big drinkers, with glasses of water that left rings of moisture wherever we moved them. I was the one that broke the news to you. It was slow, cautious, and careful.

Silly me. I’d imagined you’d give a damn.

“It’s Tommy,” I told you. “He died last night, Lily.”

Your eyes winced a little, but other than that, you made no sound or movement of recognition.

“He killed himself,” I said, clarifying. “He took a gun and he shot himself in the head. His blood was everywhere. I saw his little apartment earlier. I threw up.”

“And yet you’re sitting here, in a bar, drinking water,” you said, calculating me with easiness. Your eyebrows lifted in some sort of barely-tolerant exasperation, green eyes rolling toward a drunken brawl beginning against the opposite wall.

“Yes,” I said. I nodded. Yes, I was in a bar, drinking water, telling you calmly of Tommy’s suicide.

“I think we should get shit-faced,” you told me. “We should commemorate dear Tommy’s death with a little firewhisky.”

I don’t think you ever really understood the gravity of what I told you. I wonder if you knew immediately that you had been the cause of that poor kid’s death or if it hit you later on in bed after a tryst with James. I really don’t know. I really don’t care. You two, happy and content with your hero complexes and your great big expensive flat, never really cared about people not in the spotlight, did you? I bet it didn’t even matter.

Tommy was never center stage. He was a stage manager and you were the leading lady. So he took a gun to his head and he fucking shot himself.

Albus said later that he regretted not letting him in the Order, even though he was still so young. It was the first time I’d ever heard Albus question one of his decisions. After you were dead he questioned himself a lot more. After what happened to Frank and Alice, too, things just sort of fell apart.

But Tommy, insignificant as the kid possibly was, was the first stroke of the reaper.

He did it to himself.

Everyone said that there would have to be casualties on both sides. It was like you and James and Frank and Sirius and Remus and Alice and Albus and everyone, even Moody, all sat down together with the Dark Lord himself and had arranged it like that. Like it was some kind of given that in order for good to prevail and for parades to commence, in order for the champagne and white wine to really taste spectacular, people from both sides had to _die_.

Damn you for your sacrifice, for your martyrdom. No one had to die, Lily.

Least of all Tommy.

He loved you so he died.

James loved you so he died, too.

You didn’t love your son. You loved your martyrdom.

Lily, Lily, you bitch.

You died, too.

Really, I’m done.


	10. Bottle

**Series of Vignettes**

By Solarism

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Enjoy.

**X. Bottle**

Pairing: Sirius/Lily -- AU

Rating: PG for a kiss

Category: Romance

Completion: Complete, written in 2004

\- - - - -  

The bottle spun round and round, round and round, round and round, round and round, round and round the circle… Quickly at first and then slower, and then slowly, and then it barely shifted, and then it stopped.

It pointed towards a redheaded girl, who put her hands to her cheeks and laughed, her eyes aglow with the brilliance of youth and the passion of scandal. She squirmed a little in her spot on the hardwood floor, looked to the left and to the right, and then looked at the person that had landed on her with a roll of her eyes and an expectant raise of her eyebrows.

She wanted to know where her kiss was.

The boy who had spun the bottle sat, staring at the girl, either half-dead or half-stupefied. The girl opened her full lips, smiling at him brightly, and this was all the boy saw. Those lips drowned out the laughter and the chatter of the other people in the circle. He didn’t hear his friends. He didn’t hear anyone.

The girl next to him, tall and dark-haired, nudged him hard. “Hello! Oy, Sirius Black! Are you alive, you old bore?” she asked with a good-natured grin.

“What?” the boy frowned, shaking himself out of his stupor. She nudged him again.

“You’re supposed to kiss her now,” the girl whispered, nearly conspiratorially. Sirius blinked and turned his head back towards the laughing redhead, whose green eyes were looking everywhere but him.

With a deeply furrowed brow, he gave a small nod of recognition. He bit his lip and pushed himself up from the floor, walking across the small circle of people. As he knelt before the redheaded girl, the rest of the people went quiet.

“Hello then, Lily,” Sirius said quietly.

She stopped laughing, slowly, as she always did. She quieted herself down, a rose red smile still gracing her lips, and said, “Hello, Sirius.”

Sirius put one of his hands to her cheek. The smile slowly faded from her face and she swallowed with some difficulty, looking at him inquisitively with her bright green laughing eyes.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Yes,” she whispered back, her lips barely parting.

Sirius took a hard look at her and then leaned in, slowly, and placed his lips upon hers. 


	11. Taxi

**Series of Vignettes**

By Solarism

_Series of Vignettes_ is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Enjoy.

**XI. Taxi**

Pairing: George/?

Rating: PG for language

Category: Angst/Romance

Completion: Complete, written on December, 12th 2004, but stretchibly fitting after the release of DH. *shrug*

\- - - - -  

 It’s been so many years since I’ve seen him. I’m in a taxi cab, just sitting here and wondering how the hell I’m going to greet him, watching the blur of the downtown lights zip past me as we move through the overcrowded streets. The rain beats down on the cab and mirrors my mood—it’s a wonderful night to be temperamental.

 

I haven’t seen him since I graduated from Hogwarts. We went such separate ways. I’ve read about him in the Daily Prophet of course… in recent times he’s been in the news so much it’s hard not to take notice of his life. At first I tried to block out his existence—it seemed so much simpler that way. He was out of sight and therefore out of mind. I was happy for a time. Living with my parents again, outside the world of magic and trickery, made things seem simpler.

 

George seemed a world away.

 

He left half way through our seventh year with his twin, Fred, to open up that damned joke shop. Everyone supported the two of them so much—it seemed like they were heroes for up and leaving everything they’d ever known. It was like George was a hero for getting up and walking away from me. I know that’s childish. I know that it’s pointless to think that way. It’s just that thoughts like these have caught my head more and more, now that he’s in the news so often, now that he’s famous.

 

And you know what? It still hurts.

 

The cars we pass seem so temporary. Muggles always just try to concentrate on what is immediately ahead of them. They never bother to see the here and now and to recognize things for what they are. I do not regret returning to their world to live and work, but somehow I am still not like them. I am twenty-seven years old and it feels like I am still out of place. Why did seven short years at Hogwarts change me so dramatically? I cannot comprehend.

 

Part of me knows the truth. It whispers everything to me as the lights whiz by, as the rain whips down on the taxi, as I shut my eyes and swallow hard to prevent a lump from rising in my throat. Hogwarts didn’t change me. Knowing George did.

 

I loved him very much and he left me alone. There was no owl, there was no second glance, there was no attempt to contact me, even after all we’d shared… He must’ve thought me simply a childish schoolboy crush of his. Nothing to be bothered about. He was busy—he got too busy for me. He had his shop to open up. Fred and George were able to find the money to open up their business on Diagon Alley. Ever since they started it up, I’ve gone to stand in front of it every summer, at least once or twice. I’ve never actually gone in.

 

It seems strange, really. It’s like I’m afraid.

 

But now he wants to see me, and I don’t understand why, after nine years of no contact and absolutely no love… I don’t understand why he needs to talk to me so badly. I don’t know why he has to see me. I told him to meet me at the Hog’s Head. He doesn’t like it in there. He never did. He’s always been so important and funny and wonderful, and always so damned curious… but he’s never liked the Hog’s Head. That’s why I chose it. I chose it because he doesn’t like it and I don’t like him anymore.

 

After so many years and so many countless dreams of him, he doesn’t seem real anymore. He’s some diluted fantasy of mine, I think.

 

George Weasley… so much _pain_.


End file.
